


Michael in the bathroom

by turtleneckprick



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Hurt Michael, Platonic Relationships?, Sad Michael, Song: Michael in the Bathroom, mitb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtleneckprick/pseuds/turtleneckprick
Summary: Michael's point of view during, and after "Michael in the bathroom" depicted into a story.Trigger warning//descriptive anxiety attack(short story)





	1. The Party.

"Out of my way," Jeremy tried to shove through Michael's man-made barrier as an attempt to escape this lame, and unorganized argument, "you loser!" Michael dropped his guard, his eyes widened and his hard features automatically softened. The word stung in his brain, "loser."  
Jeremy noticed Michael's focus draw away. He took advantage of this and finally was able to push Michael out of the way of the door with little effort. Jeremy didn't hesitate, and left the bathroom, leaving Michael, alone.  
Michael stood, still taken aback by Jeremy's sudden burst of anger. Michael had only come to this party in the first place to tell his best friend about the awful things he found out about this ‘SQUIP.' "Best friend," Michael thought, were they even qualified as "friends" anymore. This past week, Jeremy had been ignoring Michael's every word, text, glance. Hell, Jeremy had been ignoring his whole existence. It was as if they'd never known each other.  
As if they had never been best friends.  
It was the SQUIP that killed their friendship, and Michael knew it. Now he was all alone. Literally, a friendless loser at a party, hanging out in the bathroom. Michael's blank stare broke and he turned and faced the door. He had a small thought in the back of his mind, maybe he could go out into the party and explain to Jeremy that he wasn't jealous and that he just wanted things to go back to normal. He just wanted his friend back. His other half. He just wanted Jeremy back. The thought was debunked. It was a dumb idea, Jeremy was out there with the popular kids. His new friends. Having sex, drinking, and listening to cheesy pop music. "Why would anyone wanna be popular?" Michael thought, "the type of shitty music popular kids listen to sucks!" He said, half joking, trying to make light of the situation. It didn't work. Michael took a deep breath, the bathroom was so enclosed and the air felt thin. He sat down on the edge of the tub, contemplating how he would pass the time. He directed his attention to the tempting loose bathroom grout around the lining of the tub, and began to pick at it. Although this kept him entertained, it wasn't enough. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He could hear the muffled sound of music through the door. Whitney Houston, "I wanna dance with somebody." He smirked to himself at the sound of drunk teenagers singing along to a sappy, overplayed song from the 80's. The thought of actually going out and possibly enjoying the party slipped his mind again. But he knew no one here. Well, he knew them, from school obviously, but not well enough to actually start up a conversation with them. The only person he knew was Jeremy. Or did he? It was like Jeremy was a totally different person. Before the argument, Jeremy had told Michael his SQUIP was off. Did that mean Jeremy actually hated Michael? Michael had one chance to actually talk and communicate with Jeremy. His best friend. And he totally blew it! He shouldn't have told him his opinions, it was Jeremy's choice to take the SQUIP, not Michael's. He should have minded his own business! He shouldn't have pissed him off! He shouldn't have said anything! Michael jolted up from his sitting position on the tub, it was no longer comfortable. He stood and paced back and forth, he ran his fingers through his hair. He looked down and watched his shoes land uncentered on each of the tile squares on the floor. His uncoordinated steps either went across the lines or to close to the second square. Michael stopped. What the fuck was he doing? "What the fuck am I doing?" He whispered to himself. Distracting himself. That's what he was doing, but it was sure a sad attempt at doing so. He leaned against the bathroom wall, then let out a shaky sigh as his body slowly slid to a sitting position on the floor. Michael's throat felt dry, and his body grew numb. Was he the problem? Jeremy had been ignoring him this whole time because Michael was such an inconvenience. Just some senseless stoner who listened to outdated music and played childish video games. Why was he such an embarrassment to everyone? He could feel his thoughts beginning to take over. He closed his eyes and tried to focus, focus on breathing, focus on who he was, where he was, and his current state. He couldn't control them. They were all around him. He was surrounded. They began to cave. Michael ruined everything. Jeremy was better off without him. Jeremy was 10x happier now. 10x happier without Michael. Michael was worthless to him.  
He felt helpless. He fucked everything up. He cradled himself and rocked back and forth. He couldn't hold his composure anymore. He could feel hot tears rolling down his face as his body trembled. "Stop crying." He told himself, "stop crying. You loser." The word slithered off his tongue. The repetition of the word echoed in his brain and felt as if it was eating him from the inside, like a parasite. The word had once been an accomplishment when Jeremy was involved, but now the word felt like an insult. An indignant label. Michael was just fine being viewed as a loser with Jeremy, but was completely undone by the idea of being a loser to Jeremy.  
Michael unintentionally pushed his glasses up into his hair as he urgently wiped away the tears, including the ones he felt rapidly forming in his eyes. He had to get out of here. The bathroom grew less and less spacious, and he felt sick. His vision began to blur and he gritted his teeth. He closed his eyes. Inside his head he was screaming. He heard knocking on the door, and it grew louder and louder with every thought that invaded his mind.  
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.  
How would he leave now?  
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.  
He should have left when he had the chance.  
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK!  
Now he was forced to lie in here alone.  
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!  
In a literal ‘teenage battlezone.'  
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!  
His face contorted in pain as he forcibly covered his ears. He let out a small whimper. "Goddamnit."  
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!  
Michael suddenly jumped up from his position with unidentified courage. Not caring about the lightheadedness, or the pounding headache that almost mirrored the sound of the bass from the music playing behind the door. He darted to the bathroom sink, threw off his glasses, and pelted his face with soothingly cold water. The water was almost orgasmic against his face, which was sweaty and flushed. He placed his hands on opposite sides of the sink as he raised his head and looked disgustingly at his appearance in the mirror. He looked like shit, undoubtedly. His lip quivered, and he let out a small sob as his head fell back to facing the sink. “God. I really am a loser.”  
He wanted to go home. He was exhausted. He fixed his posture, combed his hand through is partially wet hair, and tried to make himself look presentable. He wanted to leave, but he still heard the sound of people talking. Laughing. And having fun on the opposing side. The sounds echoed in Michael's head. They'd all judge him. They'll all think he's a loser, idiot, has-been who hides in bathrooms and cries. "And they wouldn't be wrong." He admitted to himself. Wait no, what if he just blamed the redness of his eyes on weed. Yeah. It's dark, so they won't be able to see that up close to his face. It could work. But they're all probably wondering who was in the bathroom for so long. They'll probably think he's some creepy, pervert who wants to hide and watch people pee and have rough bathroom sex and-. His stomach twisted with embarrassment.  
In any other circumstance, popular guys would be praised for getting to watch girls in the bathroom all night. Not by the girls of course, but by their friends. Michael wasn't a "popular guy." He wasn't a notable individual with a high social standing. He couldn't do questionable acts and get away with them. Not that Michael was doing any of that anyway, but he would have no on to back him up. No one to explain what actually happened.  
No one would even care to listen anyway. They'd all just assume the worst no matter how many times he'd protest. Why would anyone believe him? He was nothing. Just a loser with a PT Cruiser. "Hah, that rhymed," He mused, with a small joyful look in his eyes. The look was short-lived, as his smile was shattered and the joy in his eyes now returned to fear. That was a pathetic attempt at a joke.  
This night was such a waste of time. A waste of energy, words, and a waste of a twelve-year friendship. Michael would have had more fun sitting at home and watching porn. I mean, not that he'd complain, but porn isn't exactly a socially excepted activity to do on a Friday night, but it would have been more fun than this. Anything would have been more fun than this. Being dead would have been more fun than this.  
Michael finally got tired of feeling helpless. The party had seemed to die down. How long had he been in here? Didn't matter, now was the perfect moment to take advantage and leave. It was just him against the world now. Or, him against a bunch of drunk teenagers. He took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. He unlocked the door and hesitantly opened it. He paused, closed his eyes and threw on a fake smile. Sarcasm formulated in his mouth. "Awesome party," he whispered, "I'm so glad I came."


	2. Escaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I prefer to think of Michael and Jeremy in this as platonic, but honestly, it works either way, let your imagination flow.)

The muffled music suddenly came at full force and ran through Michaels pounding head as he cautiously opened the bathroom door. Trying to act “normal,” he stepped out, and casually looked around. To his surprise, no one was outside the door. Embarrassment grew in the pit of his stomach, remembering how scared he was of what others would think. Yet, no one was there. Which made him feel even worse. It was all in his head. He sighed deeply as he fully emerged from the bathroom and stepped into the hallway of Jake Dillinger’s house. Down at the end of the hall, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the outline of teenagers; drunkenly dancing. A wave of dread rose over him.  
Michael shuffled through the crowd of drunk, sweaty adolescents, struggling to avoid eye contact. He kept his field of vision facing the floor as he shoved his way through the horde. The room seemed even more claustrophobic than the bathroom. The air was hot and suffocating, and so many ear-splitting sounds were combining all at once. Kids were screaming, laughing, and carelessly flinging their arms, and many other body parts, all around as if they were an uncontrollable force. Michael carefully stepped over red-solo cups as they laid everywhere sprawled across the floor. A couple of kids, disguised by their costumes, slammed their shoulders into Michael’s, catching his attention. He turned around, expecting an apology or something, but the culprits had already blended in with the rest of the crowd.  
Michael made the mistake of scanning the crowded room. He felt his body grow numb. In the far corner of the room, past all the flailing arms, he saw Jeremy. His friend. His best friend. Instictly, Michael almost went over to him, but then he remembered. Jeremy wasn’t his friend anymore. Michael stood nervously and watched as Jeremy sat on the couch talking to Capulet Juliet herself, Christine Canigula. A girl Jeremy had been gaucking over since the Eighth Grade. A girl Jeremy always babbled about to Michael daily for the past four years. A girl who Jeremy perceived as perfect and way out of his league. His dream girl. The reason he bought the SQUIP in the first place.  
Back then, Michael never minded hearing about Jeremy’s, as he put it, “obsession” with this girl. He’d always smirk and jokingly tease him about it. Yet now the two were actually talking, and purely seemed to be having a blast with one another. Michael’s eyes darted away from the scene. He was now fully aware of where he now stood on the statistic of the mind. He blinked back tears that he felt forming in his eyes. He was now marked useless.  
Jeremy no longer needed someone to talk about how amazing Christine was. Or how her hair perfectly laid, laiden at shoulder length. Or how she could perform in any play like a true artist. Michael blinked rapidly as he glanced away. It now finally clicked. Jeremy didn’t need Michael anymore. He got what he wanted. Michael took one last glance at the two, they were laughing, they looked cute together, which disgusted Michael, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was actually proud of Jeremy. “Well,” Michael thought, with a sad smile forming on his face, “at least he’s happy.” Michael frantically turned, gaze facing the floor. He wondered how long he’d been standing there. He wondered if anyone noticed him staring. He wrapped his arms around his body, he suddenly felt cold. He continued to shove his way through the mob of teenagers. The front door was in his field of vision. As Michael shoved he earned a couple of vulgar glares from people dressed in ridiculously tight costumes, but he didn't have time to apologize, he wanted to leave. To escape. Finally, making it to the front entrance he didn’t hesitate as he turned the knob and shoved himself out into the brisk October night.  
The atmosphere changed dramatically. The loud, booming music could be faintly heard from the outside, but the lyrics were inaudible. Michael always saw music as his faithful friend, but tonight it seemed to be giving off a strikingly eerie vibe. Michael shivered as he wrapped his arms around himself. Cold air filled his lungs and he breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. He watched as his hot breath dispersed into the air. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his keys out. He stumbled around in Jakes front lawn scanning the cul de sac trying to remember where in the hell he parked his PT Cruiser. After about five minutes of searching and trying to get that “beep button” on his set of keys to work, he successfully found his car. He quickly unlocked it, slumped into his seat, and closed the door. The car was quiet. Scarily quiet. Lonely quiet. Michael stared blankly at his steering wheel, deep in thought. He instantly thought of Jeremy. Of how Jeremy would always ride shotgun with him. To school, to the mall, Or even just for a random trip. Jeremy was always tagging along. He’d always complain that Michael never let him pick a song to play. He’d always complain on how hot or freezing his car was, depending on the season, because his AC was shit. Or he’d jokingly brag about how when he gets a car it’ll be “10x better than this piece of ass.” Or when they would get disgustingly good fast food at 1am and accidentally spill it everywhere.  
Michael’s face contorted. Trying desperately to fight it, he failed. Hot tears stung in his eyes and dripped down his face. His lip quivered, he bit it, trying to stop it. He breathed out small sobs, then, defeatedly dropped his head onto his steering wheel. His shoulders faltered up and down almost comically as painful sobs filled the silent air. As much as he hated to admit it, Michael missed his best friend.  
All the torment of this heinous night was imprisoning over him once again, and the reality of everything was suddenly very, very apparent. Except, saying your friend was being controlled and changed by some CPU technology didn’t exactly seem like reality. It was bullshit. Michael instantly shot up. He inhaled sharply; and with a quivery exhale he angrily turned the key in the ignition as his mood changed dramatically. If Jeremy didn’t give a damn, then neither did he.  
Michael carelessly swerved his steering wheel. He shifted his body around to check if he had rammed into any other cars as he attempted to escape this minefield of indigent parallel parking. As he freed himself from the spot he didn't hesitate or look back. Michael drove home from the party. Alone. Headlights of other cars passing on the road shined in the frames of his glasses and gave light to the glossiness of his tear ridden eyes. Gripping his steering wheel tightly, Michael glared bitterly at the road as he drove in complete silence. He was mad at everything. He was mad at Jeremy for ignoring him. For pushing him to the side. For treating him like shit for the past week. Mad for actually believing Jeremy would “owe him” for driving him to the mall to buy the SQUIP in the first place. Hell! He was even mad at Japan for making those godforsaken things. Yet deep in his mind and in the pit of his stomach, Michael was mad at himself. Mad for not doing anything. Mad for going to this party in the first place. Mad for letting Jeremy get further and further away from him. But if that's what Jeremy wanted, then he would receive. Michael didn't need Jeremy just as much as Jeremy didn't need him. Adrenaline ran through him as angrily drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. And that's what he was going to prove.


	3. Final.

The drive from Jakes house wasn't excessively long. It was a small town, so everyone kinda lived about 7 minutes from each other. Michael’s parents weren't home, they rarely ever were, so the objective of getting inside the house quietly wasn't important. Pulling the keys out of the ignition he slammed, and locked his car door. He felt the cold air run through his throat as he inhaled deeply. He sluggishly walked to his front door, he stood impatient, as he tried to pick out his house key on the key-ring. Finally selecting the proper key he flung the door open and shut it. He was too tired to be angry anymore. He felt disgusting. He was sweaty, cold, and was physically as well as emotionally exhausted. He just wanted to sleep and escape everything. He staggered as he walked, not because he was drunk, he wasn’t, despite only having 2 beers. It was just out of pure unconcern of how he looked or how he walked. What did it matter? What did anything matter? The silence of the house was reliving, but also comfortless. The isolation felt so much louder than the party itself. Michael made his way to his room, a lowly feeling of anxiety was building as he walked up each step. It was constantly building. Physically, he didn't react. He didn't care. It seemed the worst already happened.  
Finally making it to his room, Michael slumped his whole body onto his bed, not bothering to get into a change of clothes, take off his glasses, or even turn off the light. He laid there, in the exact position he fell in, and just stared at the ceiling, thinking. He thought of all the useless shit he had to burn the next day because it was Jeremy's, or Jeremy was somehow involved. It kind of excited him. Getting high and burning what was once fun, happy; dead memories. Now, they were marked useless.  
As the ceiling fan whirled around, blowing down cold-ish air, Michael’s eyes fell shut. His breathing slowed and his chest evenly lifted with the pace of his faint breaths. He fell asleep, still thinking of the kid he once had a twelve-year-long friendship with. The kid that he used to be inseparable from. The kid that he didn't even know anymore. The kid that abandoned him. The kid that called him a loser. The kid that he used to call his best friend. Jeremy Heere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the ending sucked oops.


End file.
